“I can’t do that,’’ I told her. “We’re talking about my mother here. Just tell Martinez to hurry.’’
I hung up before she could speak again. The office phone rang back immediately. The answering machine was picking up as I slipped out the door and struck out into the woods.
I returned to the trail that led to the entrance, back to where the white truck was parked. And then I took off on the path in the opposite direction, going deeper into the woods. It seemed likely that whoever had Mama would choose to stay on the marked trail instead of trying to cover rough terrain.
Here, I was on familiar ground. Some of the ferns along the path were bent back, evidence that someone had recently passed by. I saw a platinum-colored strand of hair caught in a low-hanging branch. And there was a knee-high nylon, balled up and dropped in the center of the trail.
I almost had to smile. Mama never wore shoes when she worked outside, a habit carried over from childhood. It embarrassed my sisters and me no end when we were teenagers. We’d bring home a date, and there Mama would be: standing in the yard with a garden hose, as barefoot as an Amazon tribeswoman.
“Well, I don’t see what’s wrong with it,’’ she’d always say. “My feet are just as God made them.’’
After sixty years of unshod gardening, her soles were as hard as horse hooves. At least she’d be safe from sharp sticks in the mulch covering the path. I held on to that thought. It was the only thing I had to be optimistic about.
The woods were so still, I could hear my own breath. I strained to hear anything else—a voice, or the snap of a branch that might reveal where the killer had gone. I covered perhaps a quarter-mile before a human-sounding murmur floated toward me through the heavy air. I crept closer, following the direction of the sound. Now, the noise became a voice. It was Mama’s, thank God.
“You know you can’t get away with it,’’ she said.
A low answer. I couldn’t make out the words.
“If you turn yourself in now, I’ll put in a good word. I’ll testify and tell the jury you never once hurt me.’’
I stopped, staying hidden in thick trees, just short of a small clearing. Across the open space, Mama stood on top of a concrete wall. Facing her was Emma Jean Valentine, aiming my grand-daddy’s shotgun directly at Mama’s heart. Beyond the wall was a shallow pond, home to Ollie the alligator.
Emma Jean lifted the shotgun’s barrel, motioning with it for Mama to jump. “You have a choice, Rosalee. Either you go in willingly, or I shoot you and your body falls in. Either way, the gator gets his dinner.’’
“Emma Jean, please. Think of how my girls will feel. You know how much you loved your own little boy. I love my daughters like that.’’ Mama wiped tears from her cheeks. “This isn’t you, honey. This is someone else. You aren’t a murderer.’’
Emma Jean lowered her own cheek to her shoulder and rubbed. Could she also be wiping away tears?
“I’m sorry, Rosalee. I didn’t want to hurt anybody, I swear to God.’’
I moved stealthily through the oaks and hickory, trying to find an angle to approach out of Emma Jean’s sight line. Every moment felt like a month. Just before I burst into the clearing, I saw Emma Jean hesitate. She hung her head and dropped the shotgun a few inches. But before I got out a sigh of relief, her shoulders squared. She lifted the weapon and aimed. I was close enough to see the fear in my mother’s eyes, but not close enough to tackle Emma Jean.
“No!’’ Sprinting across the field, I screamed. “Don’t shoot.’’
All in an instant, Emma Jean whipped her tear-streaked face toward me. Whirling back toward Mama, she struggled to fire. The old shotgun jammed. My mother stumbled on the wall and fell backward. Emma Jean turned and started for the woods, still hanging on to the gun.
“You do it,’’ she yelled to the sky. “I never wanted any of this.’’
I had no idea what she was shouting about. But there was no time to ask. I heard splashing from Ollie’s pond. Praying hard, I reached the wall and looked over. Mama was flailing, which looks to a gator just like a fat duck in distress or a drowning baby deer. In other words, dinner.
“Hold on, Mama. I’m coming in.’’
The pond wasn’t more than six feet at its deepest, but even that was too deep for a woman of Mama’s size who never learned to swim. I reached her easily. Calming her was another matter. First a fist, then a flying elbow connected with my face.
“Listen to me.’’ I grabbed her around the neck and stared directly into her terrified eyes. “You’ve got to stop fighting me. It’s not safe. Now, I’m going to float you about three feet toward the side of the pond. The water’s shallow there. You’ll be able to stand.’’
She was listening, her eyes locked onto mine. I felt her relax. That was the good news.
The bad news: Ollie had noticed the commotion in the water. He slid off the bank and was swimming our way.
Mama had her back to the alligator. I thought it best not to let on that Ollie was bearing down. A hysterical woman and a hungry gator make for a bad combination.
“You’re almost safe, Mama.’’ I forced a reassuring tone. “Just walk along the sand to your left until you come to the pathway out. There’s a steel gate at the end. I’ll be right behind you.’’
“It was Emma Jean all along, Mace. How could she? She was my friend.’’
I looked over my shoulder. Ollie had covered three-quarters of the pond’s length. “Not now, Mama,’’ I said quietly. “We need to get out of this water. Immediately.’’
All I could see of the gator was his snout and one eye. I knew that beneath the surface, his powerful tail was moving to and fro, propelling him closer and closer.
“Steady, now.’’ I boosted Mama by the butt onto the steep bank. I was in calf-high water, about to follow, when I felt a hard bump at the back of my knees. Ollie. I swallowed my panic. The pond here was shallow. The slap of the gator’s tail slamming on top of the water sounded like a bomb going off.
“Watch out, Mace!’’ I heard Mama screaming, as if in a dream. “Get out of the water!’’
I didn’t want to take the risk the gator would follow me onto land. He might attack Mama—a weaker, easier prey than me. I whirled around and saw acres of teeth in a mile of jaws. It was all instinct at this point: Ollie’s to eat; mine to survive.
Yelling louder than a legion of warriors, I drew back my foot. The steel-toed boot struck the gator on the top of his snout. I did it again, aiming directly for his one good eye. I kicked at his closest nostril, shouting the whole time. Ollie backed off and began to turn. I sent a parting blow to the less protected skin of his underside, where the organs are close to the surface.